


In Honor of the Guy

by spikesgirl58



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-11
Updated: 2013-10-11
Packaged: 2017-12-29 03:23:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1000293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikesgirl58/pseuds/spikesgirl58
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After their escape, Illya attempts to give Mark something to remind him of home on November 5th.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Honor of the Guy

He didn’t know how long he’d been held.  Time had narrowed to when his head was covered with a stiff burlap bag and when it wasn’t.  When it was, his breath came back hot and vile against his face and the only thing that kept him from vomiting was the fear of having to live with that smell as well.  Of course, when the bag was removed, it meant he was being beaten.  

 _Huh… couldn’t win for losing,_ Mark thought as the bag was thrown back on his head and his arms secured behind his back.  He was led away, stumbling over the uneven stone floor.  It was getting harder to move.  He reckoned he had a couple of cracked ribs and a broken finger.  He ached in more places than he could list at the moment.  Worst of all, Mark Slate had no idea what THRUSH wanted.  They just kept beating him, but asked him nothing.

The walk back to his cell seemed longer than before and twice his knees gave out.  He was merely kicked and screamed at until he managed to stand again.

The door creaked open… odd, it had never made that noise before, and he was roughly shoved inside.

Stumbling and staggering, he barely managed to stay upright.

“Yeah, come back, you blighters, and I’ll give you worse,” Mark muttered.  Then he froze at the soft chuckle.

“Still got a bit of fight in you, I see.  Good.”  It took Mark a moment to recognize the voice of his fellow UNCLE agent, Illya Kuryakin.  A moment later the bag was pulled from his head and his wrists were untied.

“Bloody hell, Illya, it’s good…”  Mark let the sentence trail off.  “Do I look as bad as you?”

“Decidedly worse.”   Mark watched cracked lips struggle for a smile.  The man had been as worked over as he had.  “How are you holding up?”

“What the hell do they want, mate?”

“For me to talk.  I’m sorry, but I can’t.”  Illya moved awkwardly, obviously in pain.  “I will get us out of here, Mark.”

“Don’t say a word.” 

“I haven’t…”  Illya touched his bruised eye.  “Obviously.”    Glancing back to the door, Illya dipped his finger into one of his  many lacerations and wrote on the floor in blood _, bugged_.

Mark winced and nodded.  He let Kuryakin guide him to the narrow cot in the room and sat heavily.  “I don’t even know what day it is.  Another hour and I won’t even know my own name.”

“When I came in, it was October 31st, All Hallow’s night.”  Illya awkwardly wrung out a bit of his shirt that he’d been using as a rag in some tepid water and offered it to Mark.

“For those who honor such things.  For me, nothing beats torching a Guy on Bonfire Night.”

“Come again?”  Illya was using another bit of rag to clean a gash on Mark’s back.

“Guy Fawkes…”  Mark hissed through clenched teeth.  “How long were you in England?”

“Long enough to pick up an accent and a degree.  I rarely ventured off the university grounds.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Illya simply smiled.  “Tell me about Guy Fawkes.”

“What’s to tell?  After Elizabeth I died, some young Catholic fellas, tired of being kicked around, decided to blow up the Houses of Parliament.”

Illya moved to a new spot.  “Ambitious plan - stupid, but ambitious.”

“Well, mate… ow … what they lacked in actual ability, they made up for with their stones.  They managed to kype some barrels of gunpowder and stash them in the cellar of the Parliament building.  Like any group, though, there was a traitor in their midst and he warned the King.    The King’s men were able to stop the plot.  Guy Fawkes was in the basement trying to light the barrels of gunpowder when the soldiers arrived.”

“Bad timing on his part.”

“For his efforts, he was arrested, tortured, and executed.”

“Burned at the stake?”

“Hung himself to avoid being drawn and quartered.”

“Then why the bonfires?”

“It was how the soldiers celebrated saving the King and Parliament that night.”

“One bad call and he was marked for eternity.”  Illya tossed the rag aside.  “Why don’t you get some sleep?  I’ll wake you up if anything exciting happens.”

                                                                                ****

When Mark woke up, he was alone.  No surprise there.  He got up and managed to pee without making too much of a mess.  He was staggering back to the cot when the cell door burst open.  He flinched and raised his fists, determined to put up a fight.

Illya stood there, a lopsided grin on his bruised face.  He tossed Mark a machine gun and gestured.  “You ready to get out of here?”

“Right behind you, mate.”  It was amazing how revitalized Mark felt with that weapon in his hands.

The battle was bloody and hard fought, but eventually they staggered from the stronghold and up an embankment under the cover of night.  Mark was exhausted and there was nothing he longed to do more than collapse on the ground.

“We need to keep moving, Mark.”  Illya got him back to his feet.

“I bloody can’t.”

“You bloody can.”  Illya shuffled forward, taking Mark with him. 

They had just made it to the tree line when the ground trembled, knocking both men off their feet.  There was an explosion and debris rained down around them.  They managed to half run, half crawl to the safety of a tree and Mark looked back at their prison.

It was being steadily consumed by a series of smaller explosions and fires.  He looked back to Illya, who was busy searching in his pocket.  With a grunt, he pulled out a watch he’d stolen and showed it to Mark as the calendar dial slowly rolled over to read Nov. 5th.

“Happy Guy Fawkes Day, Mark.”

“Aw, mate, you shouldn’t have.”

“What sort of friend would I be to deny you a bonfire on tonight of all nights?  Sorry it’s a bit early, forgive me?”

“No worries.”

 

 

 


End file.
